


infinite ink

by superhoney



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Brief Threats of Gun Violence, Castiel's Terrible Family, Dean/Cas Tropefest 5k Mid-Winter Challenge, Diner Owner Dean, First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, Supportive Dean, Tattooed Castiel, Writer Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 12:42:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10536681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superhoney/pseuds/superhoney
Summary: To be Gifted is to be marked as extraordinary, to possess a unique and personal magic that can manifest in a multitude of ways. The Novak family always produces Gifted children-- except for Castiel, the only Novak to have no Gift. What he does have, however, is his dream of being an author, and the friendship of diner owner Dean Winchester, who helps him understand that though he may be Giftless, he’s far from worthless.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the Dean/Cas Tropefest Mid-winter 5k Challenge! The goal was to create an AU in under 5000 words. It wasn't easy for me, but it was a lot of fun.
> 
> Thanks to Muse and Jojo for running this challenge and making it so fun and stress-free. 
> 
> Thank you also to Anna and Diamond for beta-reading, and to Ri for her help with the title.

He should have known better.

Castiel storms down the street, muttering under his breath, his coat flapping behind him. He draws some curious glances from passers-by, which only intensify when they get a good look at his face. 

He can practically hear them whisper his name. _Castiel Novak_. And then, the truly important part: _the one with no Gift_. 

That was all the publisher cared about, too. She had no interest in his novel. He had been so excited about this meeting, thinking he was finally making progress on having his work published, but no. She hadn’t even read it. She just saw his name on the manuscript and called him in to ask him if he would consider writing a tell-all memoir instead, giving people a glimpse inside the mind of the first Novak in all recorded history to be born without the magical Gift.

He arrives at his destination and yanks the door open with more force than necessary, causing the bells to jingle fiercely. The few customers look up, but unlike the people on the street, they just nod politely and return to their food and conversations. 

Castiel breathes a sigh of relief. This place is still safe for him. 

“Hey, Cas,” a happy voice calls from behind the counter. Dean frowns at him, taking in his messy hair and unbuttoned coat. “You okay?”

“Coffee first,” Castiel replies, sliding onto his usual stool. Dean nods and turns to pour him a mug, then leans on his elbows, giving Cas an encouraging nod. 

“The meeting with the publisher was today.” Castiel sips moodily at his coffee. It’s as good as ever, but the bitter taste is too reflective of his own mood. He makes a face at it, and Dean reaches out and deftly removes it, then replaces it with a cup of hot chocolate a few seconds later.

“I’m guessing it didn’t go well.” There’s sympathy in Dean’s voice and in his eyes, which meet Castiel’s across the counter. “I’m sorry, Cas.”

“She didn’t even read my manuscript. She was hoping I would write a memoir instead.” 

He has to laugh at the indignant face Dean makes. “That’s so rude!”

“I’m a writer without the Gift, so apparently, that’s what I should be writing about.” Castiel rolls his eyes. “The family name isn’t enough to guarantee readership of anything else.”

“Then write under another name,” Dean suggests. “Let your work stand on its own merit. It’s good, Cas. And I’m not just saying that because we’re friends.”

Castiel smiles at him, though it’s strained. Dean is so loyal, so supportive, even when Castiel is being snappish and selfish. He thanks the stars for the day he wandered into the Winchester Diner and made near-pornographic noises at the burger he ate, drawing the attention of the owner and head cook. 

“A lot of publishers have started asking authors if they have a writing Gift at some point in the process,” he says. “It’s bullshit, of course. The Gift just means things come easily to you. You can still be good at something even if you’re not Gifted at it, if you work hard enough.”

“Like me and my food,” Dean says, nudging him in the shoulder. “I may not have pretty lights shimmering under my skin when I flip those patties on the grill, but they’re made with love, and they taste pretty damn good to me.”

“Exactly.” It’s getting warm in the little diner, so Castiel slips off his coat, hanging it on the empty stool beside him. He sees Dean’s eyes drop to his bare arms, and he almost covers them, but then holds himself still. It’s just Dean. Dean understands. 

Lines of colour run the length of both of Castiel’s arms. Mostly shades of blue in organic swirls and loops like vines, but with the occasional splash of red or green. He got the tattoos two years ago, on his twenty-third birthday, drunk and desperate. He knew he would never see the light of the Gift on his own skin.

The Gift presents most often at eighteen, sometimes as late as twenty-one. It’s unheard of for it to happen any later than that. Just as it was unheard of for a Novak to not have the Gift. At least until Castiel.

His sister Anna designed the tattoos for him. That’s her Gift, painting and drawing. While she sketched the lines for his approval, he watched the purple fire dance under her skin, evidence of her Gift at work. She was uncomfortable with the idea at first, but she couldn’t resist her youngest brother for long.

“Did you ever want the Gift?” he asks Dean abruptly. For all their years of friendship, he’s never really thought about it before. He knows Dean’s younger brother Sam has it, and that his mother did. The Gift tends to run in families, but it’s not always all members that are touched by it. Except in the case of the Novaks.

“Sure, when I was a kid,” Dean replies easily. “I think we all dream of it, you know? Having something that makes us special.”

“And when it didn’t happen?”

“Yeah, it sucked at first.” Dean smiles ruefully. “I felt pretty shitty about it, especially after Sam’s manifested and mine still hadn’t. Got incredibly drunk, had a good cry, you know? But like I said, I don’t need the Gift to make a good burger, or to run a place where people can come for good food and good company.”

Castiel envies Dean his contentment in life, but he’s also happy for him. He would never wish his own burdens on his friend. “I suppose it helps that you don’t have the crushing weight of the Novak name hanging over your head.”

“Probably,” Dean agrees. “I would say just run away and change your name, but your face has been splashed on newspaper pages for years now. You’d have to go far, far away.”

And that’s the thing Castiel isn’t willing to do. Because it would mean leaving Dean.

So instead, he sighs again and gives his friend a pleading look. “Any chance you can make a fresh batch of fries for me?”

“Anything for you, Cas.” Dean winks at him and disappears into the kitchen, hips swaying, drawing Castiel’s attention to his perfect ass. 

This is worth staying for.

***

Castiel steps inside his family’s imposing home, carefully arranging his shoes on the mat and hanging his coat in the closet. It’s quiet, surprisingly. If he’s lucky, he can sneak up to his room without anyone noticing him.

He makes it up the stairs, but Anna’s bedroom door opens just as he passes. “Oh, hi, Castiel,” she says warmly. “Coming home or heading out?”

He hasn’t told his family about his book, though it’s been his passion project for years now. He knows Anna would be supportive, but the others…

“Just coming home from visiting Dean,” he says smoothly. It’s partially true.

The corner of Anna’s mouth quirks up. “And how is the elder Winchester today?”

 _Perfect_ , Castiel is tempted to say. “Good,” he manages.

Anna looks like she’s about to say more, but they’re interrupted by Aunt Naomi’s cool voice. “Ah, Castiel, there you are.”

Anna cringes and whispers “good luck” before retreating back into her room. So much for her support.

“Hello, Naomi,” Castiel says, turning to face her. He’s never been fond of his aunt, really, but it’s technically her house that the whole Novak clan shares, so he supposes he owes her some politeness. 

“Come,” Naomi says, dropping a hand on his shoulder. “I have something to discuss with you.”

She steers Castiel into her wood-paneled office and guides him into a chair, then settles in across from him. “I spoke to someone in Chicago earlier today. A specialist. We’ve booked an appointment for next week.”

“An appointment for what?” Castiel doesn’t have to feign his confusion the way he did his politeness. He’s in perfectly good health.

Naomi purses her lips. “About your condition.”

Castiel’s lack of a Gift, she means. It all becomes clear. “There’s nothing a specialist can tell me, Naomi. I simply don’t have the Gift.”

“Nonsense. You’re a Novak. You must have the Gift. It taking so long to present is hopefully a sign of its power. We just have to coax it along, and then everything will be as it should be.”

It isn’t about Castiel at all. It never is. It’s only about preserving the family name, the family reputation.They always recite carefully-prepared statements about their acceptance of Castiel when asked about his Giftless status, but he’s always known that he’s a disappointment to them.

Nevertheless, he never thought he would be treated as a problem to be fixed.

“I’m not going,” he states. 

“I beg your pardon?” Naomi arches one perfect eyebrow at him, and Castiel swallows nervously, but presses on. 

“I said, I’m not going.” He looks his aunt in the eye, chin raised in defiance. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“You are an anomaly,” Naomi says through clenched teeth, her composure finally beginning to fray. “Michael has his swimming. Gabriel has his silly spun-sugar creations, but some people find them impressive. Anna’s art is selling around the world. And then there’s you.”

“And I have inherent value regardless of my magical abilities, or lack thereof.” No matter how much it hurts at times to know he will never see the colours on his skin move with the Gift flowing through him, Castiel refuses to be treated as lesser because of it.

“Castiel, be reasonable!” Naomi snaps. “Surely you can’t be happy about your condition. I’m just trying to do what’s best for you.” 

“No,” Castiel shakes his head. “You’re trying to do what looks best for the family name.”

“It’s the same thing,” she protests. She even sounds like she believes it, but Castiel certainly doesn’t. And he won’t let her devotion to the preservation of the Novak name come at the expense of his own happiness. Not anymore. 

“Goodbye, Naomi,” he says, rising to his feet. “Good luck explaining to the press why I never appear at family functions any longer.”

“Castiel! Wait--” he hears from behind him, but he’s already out the door. 

There’s a strange buzzing in his head, but it’s energizing. It lends speed to Castiel’s movements as he packs a bag with the things he’ll need immediately. He knows he can count on Anna to have the rest sent to him once he figures out his living situation. He writes her a quick note, explaining the situation and wishing her well. None of this is her fault.

He takes one last look around his large, cold room, and then he’s gone.

The doors of the Novak mansion close behind him, and Castiel feels a weight drop from his shoulders despite the large bag slung over them. He tosses his key down the gutter and mutters “good riddance.”

There’s no question of where he’ll go first. He needs a plan for the long-term future, but for now, there’s only one place--one person--he can depend on.

***

All the lights are still on in the Winchester Diner when Castiel pushes the door open for the second time that day, though it’s approaching ten o’clock. Dean usually dims them by 9:45 as he prepares to close up.

The two figures seated at the counter turn to look as Castiel enters, and it all becomes clear. “Sam!” he says, surprised. “It’s good to see you. And you, Charlie.”

Sam Winchester unfolds his long body from his stool and gives Castiel a firm handshake, clapping him lightly on the back. “Hey, man,” he says with a broad smile. 

Charlie, who saw Castiel only the other day, raises an eyebrow at the bag he’s still carrying. “What’s with the bag? Are you going on an adventure?”

Castiel sighs and takes the stool beside her. He can hear Dean clanging around in the kitchen. “I left home,” he says briefly.

There’s a clatter of pots, and then Dean appears in the doorway, wiping his hands on his apron. “You what?” he exclaims.

“Dude,” Charlie says, her eyes wide. “Explain.”

Castiel grimaces. Both Charlie and Sam have the Gift-- she with computers, he with information retention. They know he doesn’t, of course-- everyone knows that-- but he’s never confided in them the way he has with Dean, for all that the likes them both very much. 

“I should have left a long time ago,” he says evasively. “I’m twenty-five years old. It’s about time I struck out on my own.”

Sam’s looking at him like he knows this isn’t the whole story, but he offers a smile anyways. “Well, the Archives are always looking for smart people, if you need work,” he says. 

“Thank you, Sam.” Castiel doesn’t think he wants a job at the Archives, though they do important work there. Sam’s ability to remember anything he reads serves him very well in his position, but Castiel craves something a bit more creative.

“You’re staying with me,” Dean says in a tone that brooks no arguments. 

Castiel looks at him gratefully. “I admit I had been hoping for that.” Dean lives in the apartment above the diner, where Castiel has spent many evenings watching movies or playing video games. He’s never stayed over before, though.

“If your family tries anything shady to get at your money, I’ve got your back,” Charlie informs him. Her eyes practically glow at the prospect. Every tech company in the country wanted to hire her once her Gift manifested, but she prefers to work freelance on projects that she deems worthy. Apparently, Castiel falls into that category.

Their support is not entirely unexpected, but it’s certainly welcome. Dean’s family is small and patchwork, but it’s bound by something far stronger than blood alone. Stronger than shared names and shared reputations.

Charlie drains the last of her coffee and pokes Sam none-too-gently in the shoulder. “Come on, Winchester the Younger. Walk me home.”

Sam looks momentarily confused, but Charlie gives him a significant look, and he quickly nods. “Yeah, of course. See you later, Dean.”

“Say hello to that girl of yours,” Dean replies with a grin. “That goes for both of you.”

“We will,” Charlie says fondly. “And I mean it, Cas. Anything I can do to help.”

“Thank you,” he manages, offering them both a small smile.

They stop and wave at the doorway, and then Dean and Cas are alone.

Dean strides over and locks the door behind them, then gestures to the kitchen. “Let me turn everything off, then we can head upstairs.”

Castiel waits patiently while Dean closes the diner down for the night, then follows him up the narrow staircase that leads to his apartment. “I don’t have an actual guest room,” Dean says, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment, “but the couch pulls out, and it’s pretty comfy.”

“It’s fine,” Castiel assures him. “Really, Dean. I appreciate it.”

“So what really happened?” Dean asks softly, taking a seat on the couch and motioning for Castiel to join him. “I got the feeling you didn’t really want to talk about it in front of Charlie and Sam.”

Castiel plucks at the loose thread dangling from the pillow beside him. “My aunt wanted me to see a specialist. About my _condition_.”

He hears Dean’s sharply indrawn breath, but there’s a pause before he speaks. “Fuck, Cas. That’s awful.”

“I refused, obviously. She spouted the same old lines about the family name, I got righteously indignant, and then I just left. Quite a dramatic storm-out. I meant it, though-- I should have left earlier.” 

“You know she’s wrong, don’t you?” Dean asks him gently.

Castiel twists to face him. “Yes.” Then he corrects himself. “Most of the time.”

“Having the Gift doesn’t make you better than anyone else,” Dean reminds him. “Anyone who tries to make you feel that way is a shitty person.”

Castiel imagines that Dean probably had this conversation with himself several times as it became clear that his own Gift would never appear. It makes it more meaningful, somehow. But he’s tired, and his future is uncertain, and even Dean’s words don’t bring him the peace he craves.

“I think I’d like to try to get some sleep,” he says softly. 

For a second, there’s something that looks like hurt on Dean’s face, then it’s replaced by concern once again. “Of course, Cas. There’s a spare toothbrush under the sink in the main bathroom. If you need anything else, just let me know.” 

He squeezes Castiel’s shoulder lightly, then with a whispered goodnight, retreats to his own room.

***

Hours later, Castiel is still awake. The pull-out is surprisingly comfortable, as Dean promised, but he can’t seem to turn his brain off. He tosses and turns before eventually pulling his notebook and pen out of his bag and flicking on the lamp.

Writing has always been his escape. And yet, the worlds he’s created over the years hold no comfort for him now. He finds himself pouring his heart onto the page instead, all his frustration and his anger and his doubt. Exactly the kind of thing the publisher would have loved. But these words aren’t for her, nor are they for public consumption. They’re for Castiel, and for Castiel alone.

Dean’s bedroom door opens with a creak, and the hall light flicks on. “Cas?” Dean murmurs sleepily. His hair is mussed and his feet are bare beneath the hem of his plaid pyjama pants.

The scratch of Castiel’s pen across the page can’t possibly have been loud enough to wake Dean. Perhaps he just has some sixth sense that told him Castiel wasn’t sleeping. “I’m sorry, Dean,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s fine.” Dean comes and sits beside him on the pull-out. “What are you writing?”

Castiel’s lips twist in a smile that’s more like a grimace. “Personal non-fiction, surprisingly. Apparently I have a lot of baggage to work through.”

Dean chuckles. “No shit. And hey, whatever works.”

Castiel looks up at him, considering. He trust Dean completely. Maybe these words aren’t just for him. Maybe they could be shared-- with the right person. “I don’t know what to do,” he admits quietly.

A tentative arm wraps around Castiel’s shoulder, and he leans into Dean’s broad chest with relief. “It’s gonna be okay, Cas,” Dean murmurs. 

“I’m still so angry,” he confesses into the soft material of Dean’s shirt. “Sad, yes, but mostly I’m just angry. It scares me a little.”

“You’re allowed to be angry. Hell, I would be furious.” Dean strokes his hand down Castiel’s back soothingly. “My dad always looked at me like he expected my Gift to show up, but he died when I was twenty, so he never knew that it never did. I think he would have been disappointed.”

“Then he would be a fool,” Castiel says, pulling back far enough to look Dean in the eyes. “No one could know you and consider you a disappointment, Dean Winchester.”

Dean snorts, but his cheeks flush, and his eyes are soft. Maybe it’s something about the stillness of the middle of the night, or the way they’re already pressed so closely together, but Castiel feels bold.

So he leans forward and kisses Dean. 

He feels Dean kiss him back for a glorious second before he pulls away. “Cas, I don’t know that you’re in the best place right now,” Dean says. His voice is soft with regret.

The rejection would sting more if Dean’s hand wasn’t still warm against his back, if Dean’s leg wasn’t still pressed closely against his.

“I know what I’m doing,” Castiel says. “I want you, Dean. If that’s a problem, I’ll leave. But please don’t presume to know what I’m feeling, or try to decide what’s best for me. I’ve had quite enough of that.”

The corners of Dean’s eyes crinkle up with his smile. “Okay.”

“May I kiss you again?” 

“Okay,” Dean repeats, barely holding back his laughter.

Castiel surges forward once more, and this time, Dean meets him halfway. His lips part to allow Castiel’s tongue entry and soon enough they’re breathing harshly, barely any space left between them. 

“My bed is a lot more comfortable,” Dean says when they break apart for air.

Castiel hesitates. For all his enthusiasm and all his years of pining, he doesn’t want to push this too far too fast. 

Dean notices and cups his cheek in one tender, callused hand. “Hey,” he says. “God, this is going to sound so sappy, but I just want to hold you, okay?”

Now that Castiel likes the sound of. He stands and extends a hand to Dean. “Lead the way.”

Dean tugs him towards the bedroom, then down onto his large, soft bed. Between the thick quilt and Dean’s own body heat, it’s far warmer here than it was on the couch. Castiel sits up and pulls off his shirt, letting it fall to the floor, forgotten.

Dean’s staring at him with wide eyes, and while the attention is flattering, it takes a second for Castiel to understand it. And then he realizes-- Dean probably never knew how far his tattoos extend. There are lines curving not only down his arms but also across his chest, down his ribcage, and ending with spirals across both his hips. 

“You’re beautiful,” Dean tells him solemnly. His fingertips twitch on the sheets like he’s aching to touch, but he holds back.

That respect, that careful consideration, is what prompts Castiel to take Dean’s hand in his own and place it on his left wrist. “It’s okay,” he says, giving him permission. 

Dean kisses his forehead, then begins delicately tracing the lines inked on Castiel’s skin, from his wrist to his shoulder and then down his chest. Then he repeats the movements on Castiel’s other side, leaning over him as he does. 

Castiel might never feel the hum of the Gift through his skin, but there’s magic in this as well.

Finally, Dean places a single kiss right above Castiel’s heart. “Get some sleep,” he says. “We’ll figure it out in the morning.”

Castiel nods, his eyes already drifting closed, lulled into contentment by Dean’s hands on his bare skin. He rolls onto his side and Dean presses in close behind him, wrapping him in his arms.

***

They wake to a crashing noise from below them. Castiel blinks sleepily at Dean, who’s already in action, rolling out of bed and heading for the door. “Stay there,” he tells Castiel.

“Like hell,” Castiel informs him, and follows him down the stairs and into the diner.

There’s a man in a black ski mask attempting to open the cash register. The door is smashed, and Dean practically growls at the sight of his beloved establishment being treated so roughly.

“Hey, buddy,” Dean says. “There’s like, two hundred bucks in there. It’s not even worth it.”

The man looks up at them, startled. He must not have heard them come down the stairs. They can’t see his face behind his mask, but theirs are uncovered.

“Holy shit,” the guy breathes. “That’s a Novak.”

Castiel flinches. Maybe he should have stayed upstairs.

The intruder keeps talking. “The un-Gifted one, I think. Oh, I bet your family would pay me the big bucks for your safe return.” And he pulls a gun out from behind him, and points it directly at Dean.

“I think you know how this goes. You come with me, all calm, and I don’t shoot your boy toy here.”

Castiel casts an anguished look at Dean, whose face has gone pale, eyes fixed on the gun aimed at his chest. Not for the first time in his life, Castiel wishes he had the Gift. Something that would be of use to them in this situation. 

“Don’t do it, Cas,” Dean says under his breath. 

“I won’t let him hurt you,” Castiel snaps. 

“Cas,” Dean protests as he walks calmly over to where the intruder is standing. 

“Perhaps I could borrow your jacket,” he suggests. “It would look strange, don’t you think? A shirtless man walking down the street in this weather?”

The man hesitates, but then dips his head in acknowledgment. The arm holding the gun lowers as he starts to shrug out of his jacket, and that’s when Castiel makes his move.

He doesn’t need to be Gifted in hand-to-hand combat to take the man by surprise. He kicks him directly in the groin, then in the knee, and the man crumples. The gun goes off, and Dean shouts, but when Castiel has the man pinned beneath him, Dean comes running over to them, uninjured.

“Bullet hit the wall,” he says tersely. “Cas, that was so _stupid_.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

Dean sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, then stands and uses the old phone on the counter to call the police, keeping a wary eye on the man pinned beneath Castiel.

The police don’t take long to arrive, and to their credit, they barely blink at the sight of Castiel Novak, shirtless, keeping an armed robber under control. They take him away, and after getting statements from Dean and Castiel, they leave.

The diner is quiet as Dean inspects the broken door, mouth twisted in displeasure. Castiel shivers as the cold air spills in from outside, and Dean looks up at the noise. 

“Oh, shit,” he says. “You must be freezing. Go back to bed, babe.”

The endearment slips out easily, and it’s enough to warm Castiel. He shakes his head stubbornly and waits while Dean boards up the door with some broken-down cardboard boxes. 

The police promised to maintain a presence on the street just in case, so once Dean is satisfied with his patchwork construction, they go back up to the apartment. Dean offers him coffee or hot chocolate, but Castiel shakes his head, going right to the bedroom and climbing back into bed.

Dean joins him, leaning up on one elbow so he can look into Castiel’s face. “That was very impressive,” he tells him. “Like I said, stupid. But also impressive. You’re a badass, Cas.”

Castiel smiles at him, pleased. “Growing up with older siblings does have its perks.”

Dean laughs. “And I gotta admit, it was a bit of a turn-on, watching you take that guy down like it was nothing.”

“Stop,” Castiel says, flushing. 

Dean just laughs again and slides down beside Castiel, resting his head over his tattooed chest and slinging a heavy arm across his waist. “You don’t need the Gift to be something special,” he says, and it’s like his words sink directly through Castiel’s skin and into his heart.

As much as Castiel has told himself that over the years, it’s finally beginning to feel like it might actually be true. He has skills and talents that make him useful and productive even if they don’t cause colourful lights to appear on his skin. He has friends who will support him-- Sam, Charlie, even Anna.

And he has Dean. 

“Still pissed that guy broke my door, though,” Dean mutters darkly. “I hope you hit him nice and hard.”

“I did,” Castiel assures him. “And don’t worry about the door. If insurance doesn’t cover it, I can pay for it.”

Dean’s grin is visible even in the dark. “Right, that inheritance of yours. Guess being a Novak is good for something after all, huh?”

Castiel can take his teasing, especially when it comes with the light, affectionate kisses Dean drops haphazardly over his face. “Just you wait. I’ll be a famous author someday, and I won’t need the family money anymore. There’ll be book deals, and movie adaptations…”

“I don’t doubt it,” Dean tells him, and the sincerity in his voice takes Castiel’s breath away. “You’re just getting started, Cas.”

Castiel hums happily and adjusts his position, rolling onto his stomach with his head pillowed on his arms, drinking in the sight of Dean’s face so close to his. Dean’s fingertips begin to move in repeated patterns across his bare back, but there are no tattoos for him to trace there. It feels like he’s writing something, but Castiel can’t determine the words.

“What are you writing?” Castiel asks, his voice thick with tiredness.

Dean’s hand stills. “Maybe I’ll tell you someday.” But he repeats his movements one more time, slowly enough for Castiel to grasp the pattern.

Three little words.

And he understands why Dean chose not to say them out loud quite yet. He can’t say them himself, though he has no doubt he eventually will. Maybe, like Dean, he’ll write them first, in the pages of one of his books.

For now, it’s enough to feel them seep into his skin, as permanent as the tattoos on his arms and chest.

The Gift may not have chosen to present itself to Castiel. But Castiel has made his own choices, and he’s content with them.

More than that, he’s happy.

**Author's Note:**

> I borrowed the term "Gift" in reference to magical abilities from Tamora Pierce's Tortall novels, though it works more like the concept of Grace in Kristin Cashore's Graceling Realms novels. 
> 
> On tumblr as [pomegranatedaffodil](https://pomegranatedaffodil.tumblr.com/)


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